Valentine's Day
by chai4anne
Summary: It's Valentine's Day, Jack Reese has left for Aviano, and Donna doesn't have a date.


Valentine's Day

(Or: Rick Blaine, My Impossible Boss, and Me)

By Chai

Author's Note: This takes place on the Valentine's Day after the "Inauguration" episodes, which by my calculations probably falls sometime between "Privateers" and "Angel Maintenance."

It's a sequel to my "White Christmas" and "Snow"—I wasn't happy leaving things so unresolved between Josh and Donna in those stories, and wanted to bring them out to a better place. To do that, I had to start things off with kind of a crazy idea. I'm still not sure whether it really works or not, but I hope you'll enjoy it.

Like my "Holy Night" fics, this was written under the influence of Jo March's "Me and Victor Laslo." You don't have to have read that one to follow this, but if you have, I'm sure you'll recognize many echoes of it here. I only wish my story were half as brilliant as hers.

Many thanks to Liz, Laura, and Mistletoe for taking the time to read this and make suggestions. Since I wanted to put this up today, they didn't get much time for it. All the mistakes you'll still find here are entirely my fault, not theirs.

oooooo

Valentine's Day

"What's the _matter _with you?" my roommate asks, as I down another glass of wine.

"It's the day before Valentine's Day, and my boyfriend left for Aviano two weeks ago. What do you _think _is the matter with me?"

"You're an idiot," Cindy says, not unkindly.

"I'm _not _an idiot," I mutter. "I'm an intelligent woman." It's something I tell myself several times a day, several days a week. Five, at least. Usually six. Or seven, if Josh is really going full out and I can't get even one day off.

"And the evidence for this is?"

"It's obvious, really." I'm reaching for the bottle again. "I work at the White House. They don't let you do that if you're not intelligent. And not only do I work at the White House, I work for the third most important man in the building—that's assuming you don't count the Vice President, and who ever would? Assisting Josh is an important and challenging thing to do. I do it well. Therefore I must be an intelligent woman. Therefore I am not an idiot. Right?"

"Wrong," Cindy says, leaning over and taking the wine away from me. I glower at her.

"If you're thinking about that Communist thing, that should _not _be allowed to count against me. That was entirely Josh's fault. He even admitted it." The fact that he was willing to take the blame for that one shouldn't count much for him, either. Not after all the other things he's said and done recently.

"I'm not thinking about the Communist thing."

"That Laverne and Shirley act at the D.A.R. ball wasn't my fault, either."

"I never said it was."

"You're thinking about what I did for Jack, aren't you? You're as bad as Josh. It made perfect sense at the time. The man has a brilliant career ahead of him. Whereas all I have is a job working insane hours for an arrogant, overbearing, insensitive, idiotic. . . ." Yes, I know—I just said it was an important and challenging job. I've had quite a bit to drink at this point. "Look, just give me some more wine already."

"Don't be such an idiot," Cindy repeats, not letting me have the bottle.

"I'm not an idiot," I say for the third time. "I'm an intelligent woman who is privileged to be working at the White House, but who unfortunately drew the short stick in the boss lottery, so that working in this amazing place also sadly means working for an arrogant, overbearing, insensitive, idiotic boss who makes arrogant, overbearing, insensitive, and idiotic comments that he has no business to make."

"What did he say this time?"

"You know. That thing about Jack _wanting _to be transferred away from me."

"That was weeks ago!"

"I know. How am I supposed to forget it, though?"

I mean, would _you _find it easy to forget that your boss thought your boyfriend _wanted _to be transferred away from you? It should have been perfectly obvious that Jack was telling the truth. It all happened because the President and Leo asked him to do something he didn't want to do, and then they didn't tell the Pentagon they'd asked him to do it, and the Pentagon brass got angry with him for doing it and had him transferred as a punishment. The whole thing was quite clearly not his fault, but theirs.

But Leo and the President are sacrosanct in Josh's eyes. They could never possibly do anything to deserve anyone being even the tiniest bit angry with them. Because that might mean Leo or the Presidenthad done something wrong, and Josh couldn't wrap his mind around that at all.

I don't mean something _really _wrong, of course. Jed Bartlet's not telling anyone he had MS when he was running for President was definitely questionable in my mind, and a lot of other people's minds, too, but while it may have been a bad judgment call, it wasn't something I'd really call seriously, morally _wrong_.

Like having someone murdered, or something. The President would never do that, of course. Leo would never do that. I'm just saying, in a hypothetical way, that if they ever _did,_ I can't imagine Josh being able to go on working for them, because no matter how pissed I might be with him at the moment, and no matter what he's done to deserve it, I have to say right now that my boss just isn't like that. It would drive him wild inside. The only way he could ever do it would be if he thought the President had had a really good reason for doing whatever it was that was wrong—that he'd had to do it for the country's sake, or something—in which case I'd have to say that whatever he'd done wasn't really wrong at all but right, or the closest thing to right under the circumstances.

But Josh probably wouldn't think it was all right. See, Josh does lots of things people like my parents think are wrong. Politics is all about compromise and cutting deals, and deals involve making trades that people who don't work in D.C. tend to think look pretty dirty sometimes. But there are a lot of things Josh would never do, and would really hate being part of.

And yet he'd probably go on working for the President anyway, even if the President had done something he thought was really bad, as long as he also thought he'd done it for a good reason, because Josh doesn't leave people. He just doesn't, no matter how unhappy they're making him. He'd go on acting like everything was all right, but under the surface he'd be absolutely miserable, because he'd hate that the President had done something like that, and hate having to be part of it.

Which would mean—oh dear, this sort of thing makes my head spin. It's all just hypothetical anyway_. _Let's get back to what I was really trying to say, which was that, short of them being involved in some sort of absolute moral catastrophe, which hasn't happened and never will, Josh Lyman would never admit that Leo or the President could make a mistake. Never. So, if my boyfriend gets transferred a thousand miles away from me, and he says it's because Leo or the President asked him to do something and then let him take the fall for it, then, in the world according to Josh, Jack must be lying and must really have requested the transfer himself. Even though that would mean he'd have to move thousands of miles away from me.

Or _because _it would mean he'd have to move thousands of miles away from me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen: according to Josh Lyman, I am the kind of woman a man would do anything to get away from, even moving thousands of miles across the ocean to a political backwater where his up-and-coming career at the Pentagon would be completely stalled.

You see why I'm so pissed at Josh?

That whole business that day was just like him. He worked it out that it was really Jack who'd said those things to Danny's researcher, not me. Then he came and threw snowballs at my window like an overgrown kid until I came down—which, by the way, I only did to get him to stop waking the neighbors up—and then he scolded me about taking the blame for Jack and not thinking about my career—my _career!_—and what the President thought of me. So of course I ended up feeling like an idiot for not thinking about those things, not to mention for ever having thought Josh wouldn't be able to figure it all out in about two seconds. Really, he's so smart sometimes he scares me.

And then he stared at me like a fourteen-year-old boy who'd never seen a girl all dressed up before, and pulled me onto his lap in a taxi and whisked me off to the Inaugural ball, like Prince Charming after he's tracked down Cinderella and put that glass slipper back on her foot. He was wearing his tuxedo and his dimples, and he was so damned sweet and cute about everything, he drove every thought of Jack right out of my mind. Which was really quite unfair of him, since the whole, entire, _only_ reason I ever went out with Jack in the first place was to keep myself from thinking about Josh like that. Because women who work in the White House aren't _supposed _to think about their bosses like that, and besides, I'd had plenty of time to realize that thinking like that about Josh was hopeless and never going to get me anywhere at all.

See Josh might act like Prince Charming once in a while, but it isn't because he really wants to charm me. I don't think he even knows he's doing it. It just happens because he really _is _a fourteen-year-old boy inside and he isn't used to thinking of me as a woman at all. So when he sees me all dressed up his jaw drops and his eyes go wide with surprise, but it doesn't _mean _anything. It's just a hormonal reaction.

Because if he really thought about me that way, he'd notice that I'm attractive the rest of the time, too, and he'd either react like that at other times, or he wouldn't get taken by surprise and react like that at all. You know, if he really were attracted to me and keeping it under wraps because he's my boss and I'm his assistant, and he's not supposed to think that way about me any more than I am about him. Well, if he were doing that all the time but he _knew _he was doing it, then he wouldn't do things like come to get me for the ball and act like a moonstruck schoolboy when he saw me, because he'd see it coming and head it off at the pass. Okay, that may not sound like it makes sense, but it does, believe me, because this is Josh Lyman we're talking about here.

So. I was royally pissed with Josh after he said those things about Jack, and I've been pissed with him more or less ever since. Oh, I apologized to him about lying to him and all that, but that was just me feeling like I should take the blame, especially when he'd just been so sweet and charming. And there've been moments since when I've forgotten about it and slipped back into my usual way of feeling about him, but they've just been that—moments. Most of the time I've felt like snarking his stupid, insensitive, uncaring, unobservant little head off. Especially since Jack shipped out for Italy, leaving me without a date for Valentine's Day.

And here I need to explain something. I know women who don't care about Valentine's Day. They say it's a Hallmark holiday, manufactured by big business to con us all into spending unnecessary amounts of money on cards and gifts and dinners out. They say they don't like cards with pink hearts on them, or little heart-shaped earrings or necklaces, or roses, or boxes of expensive chocolates, or elegant dinners involving champagne and truffles at restaurants that have doubled their prices just for that one day of the year. They say they would much prefer to spend February 14 sitting quietly at home eating leftovers, and go out on some other evening to do something creative, unique, and non-commercial, that doesn't involve heart shapes or the color pink.

I know women like that, I really do. Some of them are married already. Some have been married in the past, and are glad to be out of it. Some don't want to be married, ever. All of them are highly intelligent, self-confident, worthy people. But they're not me. I understand their point of view. I admire their principles and their willingness to take a stand. As a good Democrat who believes that big business is the camel with its nose under the edge of the tent, I know I should take a stand, too.

But I don't want to. When it comes to Valentine's Day, I'm a hopeless, helpless, hapless sucker, totally hypnotized by all the hype. As soon as February rolls around every year, I yearn after every trite convention in my little Hallmark book. Hearts? I can't get too many of them. Pink? It's my favorite color. Roses? Armfuls, please. Dinner? Bring on the truffles, the champagne, the rich chocolate desserts! I want to dress up to the nines and get taken out and showered with treats by someone I adore, who adores me. Or, since that'snot at all likely to happen anytime soon, at least by someone I like reasonably well, who's willing to act for an evening or two as if he might, someday, be able to fall in love with me.

"When did you get so cynical?" Cindy asks, when I blurt that out. "I thought you wanted the real thing."

"I'm not cynical," I protest. "I'm just trying to be practical. I want to find a good man and get married and have a family someday. But how am I supposed to know him when I've found him? Maybe the buzz isn't always there right away, or maybe it isn't always turned up to full volume. Maybe, if I just put some effort into a less-than-perfectly-thrilling relationship, I'll end up being thrilled by it some day."

Why do you think I went out with Jack? Of course he wasn't the one I really wanted. But it's stupid to go on and on wanting what you don't have, can't have, and never will be able to have. What does it matter if a guy is sweet and cute when he wants to be, or if he has dimples and a smile that melt my heart? What does it matter that he's the most brilliant, fascinating, infuriating, heart-breaking man I've ever met or could ever imagine meeting? He's also an arrogant, overbearing, insensitive, idiotic jerk who doesn't realize what an attractive woman I am, except once a year when he sees me dressed up to the hilt for some fancy White House function, and then he has an entirely involuntary hormonal reaction that makes him act like Prince Charming for an hour or two. After which, it all wears off and he goes back to being his usual arrogant, overbearing, insensitive, idiotic self, who would never ask me out in a million years because he just doesn't think about me like that.

So, I've finally realized that it's not a bit of good pining after him. Especially on those occasions when a girl like me especially wants a date, such as her birthday, Christmas, or Valentine's Day. On occasions like that, it's worth faking it a bit, if there's someone even halfway decent around to fake it with, in the hopes that someday I might get over this ridiculous infatuation with Josh and find that the next best thing isn't really so bad after all.

But either Leo or the President asked Jack to do something his boss didn't want him to do, and he did it and got transferred to Italy as a result, and I ended up without a date on Valentine's Day. With nothing to do except sit around in my bathrobe the night before the Big Date Day, drinking too much wine with my roommate. Remembering what Josh said about Jack _wanting _that transfer, and wondering, in spite of all my best efforts not to, if that could actually be true.

"I'm not a cynic," I say again, looking sadly into my empty glass. "And I'm not an idiot. I'm an intelligent woman, who just happens to have no boyfriend and an idiotic boss who thinks my boyfriend _wanted _to get away from me."

"You're _acting _like an idiot," Cindy says, pouring herself some more wine, and—it's about time—filling my glass again too. "Why are you letting him see you like this? I'll bet you've been drooping around the office ever since Jack left."

"I don't _droop_," I say, huffily. "I move briskly and efficiently around the office. I get my work done in a timely and effective way. I—"

"You've been wearing your dullest sweaters and palest lipstick every day for weeks now. You're dressing like a rejected, hopeless woman. You're _drooping._"

I put my glass down. I feel my shoulders sag. I droop.

"What am I supposed to _do_?" I wail. "I _am _a hopeless, rejected woman. My life is going nowhere! I'm never going to meet a man I can fall in love with! And if I did, he wouldn't love me. It's a vicious circle. I'm trapped. There's nothing left to look forward to, except wine and chocolate." I pick up my glass up again, and take a long drink. If there'd been any chocolate ice-cream left in the fridge I'd be into that, too, but I finished it off two nights ago.

Cindy tips her head and looks at me oddly.

"I think you've already met him," she says.

"Jack Reese," I reply, articulating each syllable precisely, "has not called me once since he left. Not once."

Cindy's look gets rather odder.

"Not _Jack," _she says, as if I'd suddenly dragged him into the conversation for no reason at all. I try to think why she would say his name like that, but I'm too tired and depressed to be able to make any sense of it. Or possibly too—I'm not drunk, exactly, but I've had quite a bit of wine at this point.

Of course, she's had quite a bit of wine, too, so maybe she's the one who isn't making any sense.

"Why are you letting Josh see you like this?" she demands. "You don't want him to think you're a pathetic, rejected woman. You want him to recognize you for what you are when you're not acting like this, a beautiful, confident woman that any man would kill to go out with. A sexy, irresistible woman, with a string of would-be suitors hanging around outside her door, just waiting for her to crook her little finger and bring them rushing to her side. A really stone-cold, smokin'-hot fox,"—she's topped her glass up again while talking, and now she waves it rather precariously in the air—"with a smokin' hot date already lined up for Valentine's Day—only a couple of weeks after her last hot date got transferred to a new job."

"But I don't _have _a string of would-be suitors and hot dates lined up for Valentine's Day," I moan, drooping deeper into the couch. "That's why I'm sitting here drinking with you."

"I thought one of your majors was acting."

I stare at her. The alcohol-and misery-induced fog that had been swirling around my brain disappears in a flash.

"You're brilliant," I breathe.

"Naturally," she says.

I pick up my glass and clink it against hers.

"Here's to a really hot date on Valentine's Day," Cindy says, with a grin.

"Here's to a really hot date on Valentine's Day," I echo. And to rubbing Josh's arrogant, overbearing, insensitive, idiotic nose in it, I add, but only to myself. There are some things I really don't want to confess, even to Cindy.

oooooo

I've always found that Method acting produces the best results. If I'm setting out to convince someone that I have a really hot date coming up on Valentine's Day, I have to convince myself first. And the more I think about something, the easier it is to believe in it.

So on the morning of February 14 I put on a really terrific new dress I got on sale a while back and was saving for a special occasion. It's a little sexier than anything I usually wear to work, but with the jacket on I don't think I've crossed the line into inappropriate. Nudged up to it, maybe, but not crossed.

And all the way into work I'm thinking about my really hot date. By the time I'm at the office I've got the details all worked out: what the guy looks like, where he's from, what he does for a living, what he's interested in, how long we've known each other, how I met him, where he's going to take me—everything. It cheers me up no end: I find myself smiling as I walk through the White House doors, and humming as I settle in at my desk and get to work on Josh's schedule for the day.

I'm really going to have fun with this.

See, there's one thing I've noticed about Josh: he doesn't like it when I've got a date and he doesn't. I used to wonder about that, before I realized that he's got male competitive instinct running in his veins instead of ordinary blood, and he hates to think about anyone getting anything when he isn't, even me. I mean, he hates to think about _me_ getting something when he isn't—such as a date, or, heaven forbid, sex—not about someone getting _me_. Like I've told you, I don't think he even notices that I'm a woman, let alone an attractive woman, three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of the year.

But he does hate it when I've got a date and he doesn't. Or at least, he used to. He was disconcertingly calm about my going out with Jack. He even asked Jack to ask me out the first time, which was pretty strange. I'd asked him to, of course. I'd even tried to guilt him into it. But I never really expected him to _do _it, let alone to make so little fuss about the results.

It was a victory of sorts, I suppose. I should have been delighted, but I actually felt quite let down. He didn't even put up a fuss about my going off to the Washington Inn for Christmas, and he called me—at a ridiculously early hour of the morning—on the 26th to say I could stay another day. It felt all wrong. Josh isn't supposed to be like that; he's supposed to hate it when I've got a date and he doesn't.

There was something strange about him that night before I left, too. He kept talking about things not being what they looked like, and then he wouldn't tell me what he meant. For just a minute I thought—but I was wrong, of course. Fortunately, I didn't say it out loud.

And when I called him later, from the inn, he was drunk and morose and almost bitter. That's not like Josh: he's had some awful things happen in his life, and he gets down sometimes, but he's almost never bitter. I don't like it when Josh is down. There are too many things he can think about then that he shouldn't be thinking about, that aren't good for him. I had a feeling he was thinking about all of them that night.

I wished I'd been able to get him to talk about it, but I'd had quite a lot to drink myself by the time I called, so I wasn't just as clear-headed as I'd have needed to be to get a drunk and depressed Josh to talk about what was bothering him. And anyway, Jack was in the next room, so I couldn't stay on the phone for long. I'd only called because I wanted to say Merry Christmas and goodnight. I always say goodbye to Josh when I leave the office, and I always say Merry Christmas, too, even if it isn't his holiday. It had felt strange leaving the White House that night without having a chance to say either one.

He seemed fine when I got back, though. Tired, of course; he'd worked right through, the way he always does. Except for that one Christmas—but I don't want to think about that. I don't want to get myself all tied up in knots inside again, not able to breathe properly or thinkstraight for worrying about him. I don't need to worry anymore; he's okay now. He doesn't fly off the handle about things anymore, or. . . .

No, I really _can't _let myself think about that Christmas. I have to remember that Josh is fine now, so it's okay to be angry with him for what he said about Jack wanting to leave me. I have to remind myself that he's an arrogant, overbearing, insensitive idiot, who mustn't be allowed to think that I'm a pathetic, rejected woman who can't get a date for Valentine's Day.

A really hot date, that I've come into work all dressed and ready for. A date so wonderful I just can't stop myself from prattling about it to him all day.

oooooo

A few minutes after getting in, I take Josh his schedule, and tell him that I'm leaving at 7:00 tonight, no if's, and's, or but's. He says, "Mmm-hmm," without looking up. Clearly he didn't hear me, so I repeat myself, adding that it's Valentine's Day and I've got a really great date lined up that I'm not about to miss.

"Okay," he says. "Whatever. I need the Boehner files, and an appointment with Harwater sometime today."

He probably only heard the last couple of words. Well, Cindy would be right about my being an idiot if I thought this was going to be easy. I get him the files and leave him alone for a while. I've got all day.

It only takes another hour, though. The third time he calls me in and I make a point of reminding him that I'm leaving at seven tonight, it sinks in.

"At seven?" he says, sounding baffled. "What for?"

"I have a _date, _Josh."

"A date?"

"A date. With a really good-looking, great guy, who is going to take me out to dinner. Therefore I will be leaving at seven, and nothing short of the breakout of nuclear war is going to stop me."

"Another new guy? It's only about two weeks since the last one left, isn't it?"

He would have to get that in. I sniff, and toss my hair a little.

"A girl like me doesn't sit around for long, Josh. There are guys out there just _lining up _for the opportunity to ask me out."

"Yeah," he says, going back to the briefing papers on his desk. "I'm sure there are."

I stare at him. What on earth does he mean by that? It's not the sort of thing Josh says. Was he being sarcastic? He didn't sound sarcastic. Probably he's just tossing me a bone so he can get back to work. I can't have that. I want this day to proceed on _my _terms. So, just to extend the conversation a little, I tell him, "This one is different."

"You always say that." He doesn't even look up from his papers. This irks me.

"He's quite special. I think he could be the right one."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't you believe me?"

"Not really, no. I need the Hamilton files; can you get them?"

I'm about to pout and get them for him. Then I change my mind.

"Not until you say you believe me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because not believing me is disrespectful to me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Donna. I'm not dissing you. I'm just saying."

"That you don't think this guy will be any different from the others."

"That's right."

"That's wrong."

"Donna, I need those files."

"And you can have them, when you've said you believe me."

"For crying out loud, Donna, I've got work to do here."

"It can wait."

"It really can't."

"Josh, I keep your schedule as well as your files. You have time to have a polite conversation with me."

"I can't just change my opinion without evidence. You'd have to give me a good reason to."

"I can do that."

"Donna, I've got the nation's work to attend to. I don't have time to listen to you going on all day about some guy you're seeing."

"You don't have to listen to me all day," I point out. "Just enough to make you change your mind and say you'll believe me."

"Could I have those files now, Donna?"

"When you've admitted that this guy is different."

"You're not going to shut up about this, are you?"

"Nope."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." He sighs, but leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. "Go on. Tell me what makes this one different."

"Well." I take a breath. "For starters, I already _know _him."

There's a sharp click as the chair shifts and Josh sits up.

"You _know _him?"

"Yes, I know him. This isn't some pointless crush. We're already friends. So I know what kind of guy he is, and he knows me, too."

"_How_ do you know him? I thought you'd just met him. Does he work here?"

"Believe it or not, Josh, I do occasionally meet people who don't work at the White House."

Actually, in the scenario I've got worked out in my head, he _does _work at the White House, but I don't have to tell Josh that.

"He works on the Hill?"

"It doesn't matter where he works, Josh. The point is, this is a really special guy. He's good-looking, intelligent, thoughtful, and fun to be with—everything a guy should be. And he's crazy about me. He could be the right one. Therefore he's different, and I'm not going to miss my dinner with him tonight, no matter what comes up here."

Josh looks at me for a long moment. He seems to be studying my face, as if he's trying to tell whether I really mean it or not. It occurs to me that, just three weeks ago, I told him I'd never lied to him before, and promised I never would again. I feel my face getting warmer as I think of it. I meant about important things, of course, things that could affect my work, or his. He has to know I've lied to him plenty of times about other stuff. Like how I hurt my ankle in Wisconsin that time. Or all those fibs I told him the very first day I met him. . . .

I drop my eyes, hoping he'll think I'm blushing because I'm in love and embarrassed by talking about it, not because I'm lying my teeth off to him.

"Yeah, okay," he mumbles. "Whatever. You can leave whenever you want."

I look up with a smile. Scoring one on Josh feels so sweet. It doesn't really happen all that often.

"You admit I'm right, and this one could work out?"

He looks at me oddly.

"It's what you think that matters, Donna. Could I have those Hamilton files now?"

oooooo

Josh is in and out of appointments for the rest of the morning. Around 1:00 I go down to the Mess to get some lunch. The new guy, Will Bailey, comes clattering down the stairs behind me.

"Nice dress," he says. "Going somewhere special?"

"Dinner tonight," I say.

"I thought Josh was working tonight? On that Boehner and Hamilton thing. We're going to be writing all day."

"Josh said I could go." I hesitate, then add, "I can come back in later if they need me, though."

"Oh, I see." Why is he giving me such a strange look? "I thought—well, never mind. Toby'll be glad Josh is going to be around; I know he wants to be able to check some things with him, after we've got the next section written."

I stare after Will as he veers off towards the men's room. What an odd little guy.

Will's not the only one who's acting strangely today, though. The next person I meet is Toby, emerging from the Senior Staff dining room with a cup of coffee. I smile at him a bit tentatively. He was not at all pleased with me after that _Post _incident. He came down much harder on me than Josh did, pointing out that the things I'd claimed I'd said would have reflected badly on Josh if my story had ever made it out of the building; there were plenty of Republicans who'd be only too happy to assume that the Deputy Chief of Staff's senior assistant spoke for the Deputy Chief of Staff. Leo told me pretty much the same thing, but it was Toby who seemed the most upset about it. I've been a little uncomfortable around him ever since.

He gives me a nod and a tiny smile, though, as he walks by, so he must have forgiven me. Then, to my surprise, he calls me back.

"Josh is going to be around tonight, isn't he? I'll be needing to talk to him about the Boehner and Hamilton thing."

"Oh, yes," I assure him. "He'll be here. And I can come back in after dinner if you need me at all."

"You're going out?" He's frowning now, and giving me as strange a look as Will did.

"Yes, I've got a date, but it's all right, like I said, I can come back in anytime if there's anything Josh can't find."

"Donna—" Toby starts, still with that frown wrinkling his forehead up, but he doesn't go on, just gives me another of those strange looks, and shakes his head, and sighs.

"What is it, Toby?" I ask, nervously.

"Never mind," he says, with another sigh. "Have a good time tonight."

I'm starting to wonder why both Toby and Will would look at me like that. Do I have spots coming out on my face, or something? I'm rattled enough that I go into the ladies' room to check. C.J.'s at the mirror, fixing her lipstick.

"Hello, Donna," she says, brightly. "What's all this I'm hearing about you and some great new guy?"

"I've just got a date tonight, that's all," I say. I'm beginning to get tired of this story. It didn't occur to me, when Cindy and I dreamed this up, how uncomfortable it would be to have to tell all these lies—not just to Josh, who deserves it for what he said about Jack, but to all my other friends, too.

"Just?" she says. "I heard he's something really special."

"Oh, we'll see," I say. And then _she _gives me an odd look, and puts her hand on my arm and says, "Donna," quite seriously, just the way Toby did—except that he didn't touch me, of course. But her cell phone goes off then, and she pulls it out and talks for a minute—I can hear Carol's voice on the other end—and then shuts it and says, "I have to run. Have a great time tonight!" and breezes out of there.

That isn't the end of it, either. As I take my tray and get into line in the cafeteria, I find myself behind Danny Concannon.

"Great dress," he says. I thank him, and compliment him on his tie, which makes him laugh. "Having a good Valentine's Day?" he asks, as the line shuffles forwards. "I hear you've got a hot date lined up for tonight."

"Oh, um, yeah," I answer, completely befuddled by this. I can't remember Danny ever showing the slightest interest in my dates.

He doesn't say anything else about it. But after he's paid for his food, he waits for me to finish getting mine, and walks with me as I look for a table.

"How's Josh doing?" he asks quietly as we make our way across the room. That startles me.

"You'd better ask Josh," I tell him. "You know I can't talk about him to the press."

"This is off the record, Donna. I'm asking as a friend."

"He's fine," I say, still surprised.

"That's good," Danny says. And then, "Go easy on him, Donna. The last couple of months have been tough for him." And then he moves away and starts talking to Will, leaving me standing there with my mouth open and my hands trembling so much my coffee spills and my fork slides off the tray onto the floor.

Josh has had a tough couple of months? What does _that _mean? I can't think of anything that's been tough about them at all.

"You okay, Donna?" Charlie asks, materializing out of nowhere. He puts a steadying hand on my coffee cup so it doesn't join the fork on the floor, and somehow manages to stoop down to pick up the fork at the same time. He looks at it for a moment, puts it down on the table next to us, and takes the tray out of my hands. "Why don't you sit down, and I'll get you another fork?"

"I'm fine," I say, automatically. I've learned that cover line from the best. "Charlie—do you know anything I don't know about—well, about anything that's been happening? For the last couple of months?"

Charlie freezes, my tray in mid-air.

"What do you mean?" he asks, cautiously.

"Danny just said—" I hesitate for a moment. I really hate to admit that I don't know, and if Charlie doesn't already know what Danny was talking about, I don't want to be the one to tell him something might be bothering Josh. But Charlie's desk is right next to the Oval; he knows everything about everything. So I tell him what Danny said.

Charlie puts my tray down on the table, and nods me into a chair. Then he pulls one out for himself and perches on the edge of it.

"Well," he says, still in that cautious sort of voice, "there's Kundhu, of course."

"Of course," I say, though to be honest, any connection between Kundhu and Josh doesn't seem obvious to me at all. What's been happening there is horrible—the atrocities, all the lives being lost, theirs and ours—and I'm sure that's what Jack's report was probably about, the one that got the Pentagon mad at him and got him sent to Aviano. But Josh is the President's domestic policy advisor. He shouldn't be having anything to do with Kundhu.

My confusion must show on my face, because Charlie starts to explain.

"We talked about it just before our troops went in. The President had just told him some of the stuff that was going on there. I could tell it had got to him. It would get to anybody."

"He didn't tell me about it."

"You were kind of preoccupied with your boyfriend that night. And he probably wouldn't have told you, anyway. It's pretty disturbing stuff."

"Of course," I say again. I've heard some of it, now that Kundhu's been in the news more. It's disturbing, all right. "But we're all disturbed by that. Danny made it sound as if the last two months had been hard on _Josh._"

Charlie blinks.

"Well," he says, "I guess some people care about it more than others. I find it pretty hard to take, because for all I know those people could be my relatives. I've never done the roots thing, so I don't really know where my ancestors came from, but it could be there, you know?"

I put a hand over his and squeeze it.

"I know," I say. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I didn't think—"

"It's okay," he says. "I don't mind talking about it. What I was going to say, though, was I think it's bothered Toby and Josh quite a bit, too."

"Oh, my goodness," I say, my hand flying to my mouth. "Of _course!_" And this time I mean it. Of _course _Josh would be upset by the genocide in Kundhu. Even more than most people, I mean, and everyone I talk to is sickened by it. The news reports make me want to throw up. But for Josh, with his family. . . .

Then I think of something, and frown.

"I'm sure you're right," I tell Charlie. "That must be part of it. But Danny said, "The last _couple of months._" Nobody really knew anything about Kundhu until the middle of January—nobody over here, I mean. That's only a month ago. Danny must have been thinking of something else, too."

Charlie looks down at the table, then up and across the room at the food line.

"You know I hear stuff I can't talk about, Donna," he says, still looking across the room.

"So there _is _something?" I ask, nervously.

He stands up abruptly, says, "I never got you that fork," and starts to move away from me.

"_Charlie!" _I call out, and he turns back.

"I can't tell you, Donna," he says, his voice so low I can hardly hear it. "I can't."

"It's bad?" I whisper. He moves his head, just the tiniest fraction of an inch, up, then down.

"Okay," I whisper. "I won't tell anyone."

He nods again. "I'll get you that fork now," he says.

"I can get it," I say, but he's already halfway to the cutlery canisters. I wrap my arms around myself; the room feels suddenly cold.

He's back a minute later, with a fork and a fresh cup of coffee for me. He's got to be the sweetest guy in the world. Zoey's an idiot to have dumped him for that Jean-Paul.

"I gotta go," he says. "But Donna—"

"I won't tell anyone."

"I know, you wouldn't. That wasn't what I was going to say."

"What were you going to say?"

He picks up the other fork, the one I dropped, from the edge of the table, and starts to fiddle with it, flicking it back and forth from one hand to the other. I wait for him to get it out, wondering what on earth he's going to tell me now.

Finally he puts the fork down, looks down at me, and sighs.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "Have fun on your date tonight."

And he walks out of the Mess.

I stare after him for the longest time, wondering what it is that everyone's been wanting to say to me, and what it could possibly have to do with my date tonight.

oooooo

Josh is on the Hill most of the afternoon. He's back by six, though, and lets me go at 7:00 sharp, without a fuss. I'm really quite disappointed.

I take the Metro home, freshen up, and meet Cindy at the Thai place across the corner from our building. She's late, and the restaurant is crowded tonight; it's eight before we're seated, and almost nine before our food arrives. I spend the time trying to act as if I'm just as happy with her plan as I was first thing this morning when I was going out the door.

We're just ordering coffee and contemplating desserts when my phone goes off. It's Josh, of course. He's surprisingly apologetic about interrupting me, insists he doesn't want me to come back to the office, but could I just tell him where the files on the Addison thing might be, because he's looked everywhere and can't find them.

I tell him where they should be, but as soon as he's hung up, I look at Cindy and say, "I'm going to have to go in."

"I thought you just told him where those files are?"

"I did, but if he's been going through everything looking for them, he's never going to find them now. He's like a whirlwind—nothing's ever in the same place after he's gone blasting through."

"How will _you_ find them, then?"

"I know the patterns of his destruction. I'll find them."

So I go back in. I'd finished my Pad Thai anyway; I really didn't care about dessert. It's not like that place does anything chocolate.

Sure enough, by the time I appear in his office door, he's got every file drawer open and folders everywhere. His hair is sticking out wildly in different directions; I think he's been pulling at it. There's a couple of glasses and a bottle of whiskey on his desk; he must have been having a drink with Toby after they finished up the Boehner-Hamilton thing. He couldn't have had very much—he doesn't seem at all drunk, just distracted, which is pretty much what I was expecting.

"Josh," I say. "What do you think you're doing with those files?"

"I can't find them _anywhere!_" He runs his hands through his hair as if he knows what it looks like and wants to smooth it. That's just a habit, though; Josh never knows what he looks like unless I tell him. The hair does subside a little, but not completely.

I take three steps forward, two more to the right, and one angled slightly left, picking my way carefully between the piles of folders so I don't kick any more of their contents loose—though, to do Josh justice, most of them seem to be fairly intact. Then I bend down and pluck two pale blue folders out from between a bunch of yellow ones.

"Here they are," I say, handing them over, and I kick my shoes off and get down on my knees to start picking up the mess. Josh looks at me as if I were Madame Curie and had just discovered radium. He doesn't seem to notice how much leg I'm showing, though—or if he does, he doesn't say anything about it. He just says "Thanks."

And then, instead of taking the folders to his desk to get on with whatever work he wanted them for, he just stands there, holding onto them as if he doesn't know what to do with them now he's got them. He waves a hand vaguely at the mess. "I, um—I'll take care of this. You'd better get back to your date."

I sit back on my heels.

"I've already said good night to him, Josh. I had to leave without dessert. You owe me dessert."

He cocks an eyebrow at me, and says, "That's all you're missing? I thought this guy was Mr. Perfect."

"He is," I say, automatically, wracking my brains for some way to explain why I'd be willing to leave Mr. Perfect on Valentine's Day night so I can spend the rest of the evening picking up files for Josh. Oh, I've got it: "He'll be waiting when I get home." Well, he will, in my head.

Every muscle in Josh's body seems to freeze.

"You've given him a _key _to your place?"

I shrug.

"I trust him."

"You shouldn't do that."

"I told you, Josh, I've known him for ages. Of course I trust him."

"Donna," he says, frowning. "You really shouldn't do that."

"Do what? Trust someone?"

"Damn right. Not when it's a guy you barely—you say you've known him for ages, but where from, the laundromat? You spend all your time here. You couldn't possibly know anyone else well enough to trust him with your key."

I stick my chin in the air. I'm not going to let him back me into a corner on this. It would be too embarrassing to have to admit that I made the whole thing up.

"I don't spend _all _my time here," I insist. "And I do know him quite well."

"_How _well?"

"Well enough to know he's a really wonderful guy. The best I've ever known." That's laying it on a bit thick. But I'm tired, and Cindy and I split another bottle of wine over dinner, so my reactions are maybe not quite as reliable as they would have been earlier in the day.

"Oh, yeah?" Josh growls, and I can hear the "you can't be getting it if I'm not" thing starting up in his voice. "What's so great about him, then? What does he do, take you out to dinner? Buy you flowers and jewelry and stuff like that?"

"Yes," I say, a bit flustered at the way he's pushing me for specifics. "All those things. Of course."

Josh plops down in his chair, and snorts.

"Oh, come on, Donna. Any guy with two pennies to rub together can do that. It's a _technique_, don't you know that? It just means he wants to get into bed with you, not that you can trust him with the key to your apartment, or your life!"

And just like that, I'm mad. I forget all about what Danny said, and Charlie, and the fact that I came back in on purpose because I was worried about Josh. All I can think is that I've had it up to_ here_ with him acting like I'm an idiot, and can't get a good guy. I stop picking up the files—I'm almost finished, anyway—and fix him with a steely glare.

"Maybe that's what it means with most guys, Josh," I say, coldly. "Maybe that's what _you _mean by those things when you take girls out. But this is different. _This _guy really cares about me."

"How do you know?" he asks. The light from his desk lamp is too dim for me to see his face well, but I'm sure he's smirking.

"I just know."

"Right."

"I _am _right!"

"Yeah. 'Cause your instincts have worked so well for you in the past."

It's all I can do not to slap him.

"So you're saying men never really fall in love at all?" I enquire, icily. "Or just that none of them could possibly fall in love with _me?_"

He jerks his head back as hard as if I actually had slapped him.

"Go on," I tell him. "What is it that's wrong with me? You might as well tell me what you really think."

"I don't think there's anything wrong with you!" Why would you say that?"

"Because, Josh, I'm sick of the way you just assume that my relationships are never going to work out. You're always acting as if there's something wrong with me."

"I—no. No, Donna, I don't do that."

"Yes, you do, Josh."

"I've _never _said—"

"You say it all the time."

"When have I ever—?"

"Lots of times. Just last month, when Jack was transferred to Italy, you said he must have _wanted _to go. Like he'd have done anything to get away from me."

"I didn't mean—you couldn't possibly think I meant—you _know_ I didn't mean that!"

"I do?" I've got my arms crossed, and I'm tapping a foot now. "_How _would I know that?"

And I've got him there, I know, because he rubs a hand over his face, and looks away for a minute.

"I'm sorry," he says at last, looking back at me. "I didn't mean it that way. I'm sorry."

"You're not off the hook here, Josh."

His eyes drop away from mine.

"I'm sorry, Donna," he says again, so softly I can barely hear him. "I didn't mean that. Really, I didn't."

"Well, what did you mean then, Josh? Just now, about my having lousy instincts, and not being able to trust a guy to want more than just sex with me?"

He swallows, picks up a pen on the desk, and starts to play with it.

"I was just—I just—I just worry about you, Donna. The guys you see—you're always getting hurt."

Well, that really takes me by surprise. It's almost touching, but I'm still too angry to let him get to me that easily.

"So you're saying men never really mean it when they say they're in love. They don't fall in love at all."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Some do." He still isn't looking at me, just at that stupid pen. It annoys the hell out of me that he won't look up and meet my eyes.

"The real thing?"

"Sure."

"The kind that lasts?"

"Of course."

I laugh. Even to my ears, it sounds acerbic.

"And what would _you _know about that?"

"_Me?_" His voice slides up, and the pen slips out of his hand.

"Yes, you, Josh. If you're going to give me advice about true love, you must know a lot about it. _How _do you know? Personal experience? And don't start telling me about your parents; we're talking about today's coupleshere."

He shifts in his chair and hunches his shoulders up, the way he used to when his back was hurting him after Rosslyn. But he's fine now; it's just a residual habit. I'm not going to let it get to me. I'm not.

"Well, um, you know, I have friends who—I mean, Jon Epstein married his girlfriend right after college. Everyone thought they'd be done in four years, but they're still together. They've got a bunch of kids and everything. Picture-postcard family, Norman Rockwell stuff. He's still crazy about her; I don't think anything's ever going to go wrong there. And Alan and Elaine. . . ." His voice trails off.

"So, that's it? No experience of your own?"

I wait. He doesn't answer.

"Honestly, Josh, you are the _last _person who should be lecturing me about love. You know absolutely _nothing _about it."

"Thanks, Donna." His voice is almost—bitter. I can't help softening mine a little in response.

"I mean,_ romantic_ love, Josh. I know you love your family and your friends."

A spasm of emotion passes over his face then, and I feel a pang of remorse. This thing is going places I never meant it to: I've made him think about his father, and Joanie, and no matter how angry I might be with him I never want to hurt him that way, so I pull back to what feels like safer ground.

"This guy I know, though—this one you can't say anything good about—what I'm trying to tell you is, he's different from the others. He really does love me. And I love him."

Josh jerks his head back again at that, and I can see that I haven't moved the conversation to a safer place at all. All of a sudden, out of the blue, it occurs to me that maybe this isn't just his usual you-shouldn't-be-getting-any-if-I'm-not rivalry thing he does with me. Maybe he's wishing he had somebody to feel like that about, or someone to feel that way about him. Maybe he's missing—Amy.

Of course. Why hadn't I thought of that before? She's Mrs. Bartlet's Chief of Staff now. He has to see her almost every day. I know he had her office booby-trapped, so the pictures all fell down, which is just the sort of juvenile thing he would do if he wanted to get her attention.

And sick though that idea makes me, it's somehow worse to think he might actually be that lonely, that he would miss her, and worse still to think that I've been rubbing his nose in it—even though that's exactly what I meant to do when I started this whole charade. Why did I ever get into this, I wonder; I'd better just let it go. Only my brain seems to have frozen, and I can't think what to say or do to bring this conversation to an end.

Josh, of course, never lets anything go.

"Really?" he says. "Are you sure?" I'm half-expecting to hear a smirk in his voice still, but he sounds entirely serious. That scares me. He really must be missing Amy a lot. I can't think of anything else that would make him willing to talk about love seriously, even for a moment.

I hesitate. Of course, he catches it.

"Does he,"—and suddenly his voice has dropped into a register he almost never uses—"does he _really _love you? Does he love you enough to—" And then he breaks the thought off abruptly.

"Enough to _what, _Josh?" I'm caught now, I can't help myself. However much I hate the thought of Josh and Amy together, I have to know what it is he thinks he feels for her, what his idea of real love is.

He looks at me with a wild expression in his eyes that I've never seen there before. I wonder suddenly how much whiskey he had with Toby before I came in.

"Does he love you enough to let you go to someone else, if he knew he couldn't make you happy himself?"

I think my jaw actually clicks as it drops open. Where the hell did _that _come from? Josh thinks Amy—he'd let Amy—? It's impossible. It makes no sense at all.

"Why on earth would anyone do that?" I ask, hoping I don't sound as bewildered as I feel. He doesn't answer. And then, because I've lost my bearings completely, I find myself bringing things back to where they started, where at least I have some idea what we were talking about. "Why _wouldn't _he be able to make me happy, if I love him, and he loves me?"

"What if"—Josh's voice goes deeper than before, and there's a roughness around the edges of it that makes my heart ache—"what if he knew you needed more than he could give you? What if he had something he had to do that was going to take everything he had, and he knew you needed more than that, and he _wanted _you to have more than that? Would he love you enough to let you go _then?" _

This is what he thinks about _Amy? _Has he gone out of his mind?

And then he blinks and says, as if he's just realized how ridiculous that sounded, "You know, like one of those mushy movies you love so much. Like—like in _Casablanca, _when Rick lets Ilsa go with Victor Laszlo."

I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe he hasn't gone completely crazy after all. And it's a whole lot easier to talk about _Casablanca_than about either Josh's feelings for Amy or my own entirely fictional romance.

"Josh, you're all mixed up," I point out. "It was Victor Laszlo who had the job to do, not Rick. Rick sent her to Victor so Victor could be strong enough to get the job done. And I've told you before, I _hate _that he did that without consulting her! Whether she told him to do the thinking for her or not, it just _sucks." _

"I know how the movie goes, Donna." His voice is really doing very odd things tonight: I don't know what to make of his tone there. It seems to _mean_ something, but I don't know what it could mean, because the idea that Rick let Ilsa go for her sake is ridiculous. I tell him so.

"There's no way he does that for her sake! It's all about Victor and winning the war, not about her feelings at all. And anyway, Rick does have a job to do, too, doesn't he?" I'm really warming to the subject now; this is something that's always bugged me about that movie, no matter how much I might love Humphrey Bogart and Dooley Wilson and Claude Rains. "He goes off to join the Resistance at the end. Why doesn't _he _need her there to help him, too?"

Josh looks down at his desk and doesn't say anything.

"Anyway, I'm not Ilsa Lund, Josh," I go on. "I'm not Ingrid Bergman. And I'm not living in _Casablanca_."

There's another one of those strange pauses. And then he laughs—a quiet, odd, quite unfunny laugh—and says, "No, I guess you aren't." There's no emphasis on any word at all, but it hits me again that, however impossible it might seem to me, he's thinking of himself and Amy.

We're both quiet for a while after that.

"Josh?" I finally break the silence, not quite knowing what I'm going to say, but feeling like I have to say _something._

"Yeah?"

"Are—_you_?"

"Am I what?"

"Living—in _Casablanca_." And how ridiculous does that sound? If he isn't thinking about Amy, he's going to mock me for this for the rest of time.

But he doesn't laugh. He's looking up at me with a very strange expression in his eyes.

And then he scrunches his face up the way he sometimes does when he's trying to make something sound funny, and says,

"Well, I'm practically living at the White House. That's what it means, isn't it? Casa Blanca?"

He wants me to laugh, but I don't. I can't. I can hear that bitterness in his voice still, under the funny he's trying to bring, and it cuts me to the quick.

"Josh?" I ask again, more hesitantly than before.

"Yeah?"

"Are you—do you—are you really _happy _still, working so hard at this job, all the time?"

He sucks in his breath, sharply. And then he gets up, walks to the window, and stands there with his hands in his pockets and his back to me, looking out. It's starting to snow again; I can see the flakes dancing in the security lights beyond the glass. It's been the strangest winter for Washington; normally there's almost no snow at all, but this year it started before Christmas and we've been battered with storm after storm ever since.

"_Are _you, Josh?" I persist.

"_Don't,_ Donna." There's something in his voice that makes me catch my breath, and sets little pin-pricks of fear dancing inside me, like the snowflakes outside.

"Don't what, Josh?"

The room is so quiet at this hour of night that I can hear him suck in his breath again, and hold it for a minute. When he lets it go, it comes out in rough little jerks. His voice when he finally answers is jerky and rough, too.

"Don't—ask me that. Not tonight." He leans his forehead on the cold glass, and speaks so quietly I can barely hear him. "Just—don't ask me that tonight. Please."

I step towards him—I can't stop myself—and touch him on the arm. He stiffens and pulls away.

"Why, Josh?" The pricks of fear inside me are dancing faster now.

Silence.

"_Why_, Josh?"

Still more silence.

"_Josh!" _He must be able to hear the fear in my voice, because he answers me at last. His voice is strained, and when he turns to look at me his face is white and taut with some emotion I can't identify.

"Because—because, tonight—I just might—say no."

"Oh, Josh." I can feel tears starting up behind my eyes, and try to blink them back.

"And that," he goes on, looking down at the floor, "that's—that's—un—" He lets the syllable hang in the air, the thought unfinished.

"Unthinkable," I whisper. "For you, that's unthinkable." And unbearable, I think, but don't say out loud. Josh gives too much of himself to this job to deserve to be unhappy in it; I really can't bear the thought of that.

He lets out a bark of something almost like laughter, which takes me by surprise.

"Hardly that. I was going to say, 'unfair.'"

That takes me by surprise, too.

"Unfair?" I blurt out. "What on earth do you mean? If you're not happy with your job anymore, who would that be unfair _to_?" I know he doesn't mean himself.

"To _everyone_, Donna! Everyone who depends on me in this place. Everyone out there, all across the country, that we're working for. And Leo and the President—to them most of all. Look at me, look at where I am. They gave this to me—my dream job, and they let me do it. How can I complain about it now? Their jobs are harder. Look what Leo gave up for his—his _marriage_, for God's sake. How long had they been together? And do you ever hear him complaining? And the President—look at what _he_ has to do! Look what it's costing him; you know he's going to pay for it with years off his life. But he chose to do this, and you don't hear _him _complaining about it. So how can I whine about what this job is doing to me, when he needs me here to help him do his?"

Knives of fear are slipping icily into my chest now.

"What do you mean, _what it's doing to you, _Josh?" I can hear my voice rise in panic. "Are you—is there something you haven't told me? Are you—"

"Yeah, Donna. There are a _few _things I don't tell you, you know."

"But—are you_ okay_, Josh? You're not—your doctor hasn't—?"

"I'm okay, Donna." He sounds suddenly very tired. "I didn't mean anything like that. I'm fine."

"But—what about—" I can't bring myself to finish the question.

"I said I'm _fine, _Donna. Physically _and _mentally—or as good as I can expect, anyway. Don't worry—you're not going to have to baby-sit me through another—I'm not going to—" There's no laughter left in his voice now; it has an angry, exhausted edge to it. Then he swallows, and says more softly, "Don't worry. Really."

"But—" I refuse to let him stonewall me like this. "You said _what the job is doing to me, _Josh. You said it wouldn't be fair to complain about what the job is doing to you. That means there's something to complain about. And you said you weren't happy. That's not right, Josh. You _should _be happy. You _deserve_ to be happy."

"Sure," he sighs. "Doesn't everyone." And then, "Look, stop worrying about me, Donna. I'm fine. This job just gets to me once in a while, that's all. It would get to anybody. I'm—"

"Tonight." I'm not letting him sidetrack me here. I really have to get to the bottom of this. "You said, don't ask you tonight. Why, Josh? Why are you unhappy _tonight?_"

He swallows again, picks up that pen from his desk and starts fiddling with it again, opening and shutting it, turning it around and around in his fingers.

"_Why_, Josh? Tell me. Why _tonight?_"

He lets out a groan then, slams the pen down on the desk, and says, "God damn it all, anyway!" Then he walks back to window and looks out again, running his hands over his face and through his hair.

I watch him anxiously. After a minute he clears his throat.

"Look, Donna—forget all that. I'm okay, really. I don't know why I said that. But let me ask _you _something, okay? This guy—this man you say you're in love with—are you really _sure _about him? Are you sure he's good enough for you? Because I—I don't want you to end up—I can't take it if you end up getting hurt again by this, if you give your heart away to this guy and he doesn't deserve it, if he turns out to be just another jerk who's going to let you down—"

His voice shakes.

And then I know. I have no idea why that's what finally does it for me, or why I didn't see it before, but all my ridiculous ideas about Josh and Amy fly straight out the window into the snowy night, where they're blown away and lost and forgotten, and my heart turns over, and the thing that I've been wanting to believe and too afraid to believe all evening, all the past month since the Inauguration, all the month before that, since Christmas, and, well, ever since I met him, really, is _there,_ unmistakable, undeniable, staring me right in the face. The gates open, and every emotion I've ever known seems to come flooding in, overwhelming me so I'm afraid I'm going to laugh hysterically or break down and sob uncontrollably, or both at the same time, and I hardly know what to think or say next.

I open my mouth, and shut it, and open it again. Finally I hear myself saying, in a voice hardly above a whisper,

"I won't, Josh. That's not going to happen. You don't have to worry about that."

"Why _not, _Donna?" He has no idea what's just happened to me, what I've finally understood, and his voice is starting to edge out of control. "Why _not_? It's happened before. You've done it before."

I shake my head, too overcome to say anything. Finally, though, I manage to squeeze out another whisper,

"No. No, Josh. It never has. I never have."

"Of course it has!" He's starting to pace up and down, waving his hands in the air. "Of _course_ you have! Look at that asshole Reese. You think I don't know how much he meant to you, that you were willing to lose your career here to save his worthless ass, or how much he hurt you, letting you do that for him? Don't tell me he didn't know what you were doing; I know he did. You think I didn't see it in your face, what you were feeling, what he'd done? If I had any pull with the Navy at all he'd have ended up in a _war zone_, damn it; he'd have ended up in _Antarctica_without the shirt on his back_; _he'd be cooling his heels in hell for the rest of _time_. And that doctor-wannabe—that god-damned, freeriding, son-of-a-bitch med student who let you drop out of college to pay his fucking bills for him, you don't think I know you loved him? What the hell else would you have done it for, Donna, except you loved him? And that's what scares the hell out of me—you love too easily, you love too much, and you're so god-damned sweet and beautiful and good you don't see it coming, you don't know how to protect yourself, so these fucking jerks can just walk all over you, and there's _never anything I can do to stop it!" _

My eyes are swimming now. I put my hand on his arm again, shaking my head because I can't get the words out, but he doesn't seem to notice; he just keeps yelling.

"And I don't know what I'm going to do, Donna! I don't know what I'm going to do if it happens again. 'Cause I don't think I can take it anymore, but what the fucking hell can I _do_ about it? I'm your god-damned, fucking _boss. _I work for the _President. _I can't—I can't—"

"Josh," I finally manage to choke out. "It's okay, Josh. It's not what you think. It's okay."

He turns on me angrily.

"_How _is it not what I think?"

"I didn't love them."

"_What?_"

"Those guys. Jack. Alan. I didn't really love them."

"Of _course _you did!"

"No, Josh. No." I'm still holding onto his arm. I can smell the perspiration on his skin, and under it the faint, lingering scents of the shampoo and deodorant he used this morning, along with a touch of the whiskey he was drinking earlier. I feel giddy. He stares back at me, disbelief all over his face.

"What about this guy you've been talking about all day, then?" he grinds out. "This Mr. Perfect? You're in love with _him. _You said so."

"_No_," I say again. And then, because I'm incoherent with emotion, "I mean—no, and—well, yes, but—" And then I stop, because I don't know how to go on.

A strange little fleck of light seems to flicker in his eyes and go out. His shoulders sag a little.

"Look," he says, wearily. "It's late, and I—it's been a rough day, and I—I'm tired. I can't play riddles and mind-games with you right now. I know you love him; let's just leave it at that. It's none of my business, anyway. I'm sure he's a great guy and it'll probably work out fine; I shouldn't have said anything. I—"

I take my hand off his arm and put it on his chest. That stops him at once.

"_No," _I say again. I could almost laugh at how inarticulate I'm being, except I want to cry because I can't find the words to make him understand. "_No, _Josh, you have to hear what I'm trying to say."

He takes a deep, ragged-sounding breath.

"Okay," he says. "Tell me." And then he brings his hand up to cover mine, and presses it hard against his chest.

I'm not trying to torment him. That's the last thing I want to do anymore. I'm just too dizzy with what I've finally understood to be able to say what I need to say clearly. So I do it the only way I can: indirectly, a bit at a time. I'm too tired and overwhelmed to hear how it must sound to him.

"What I'm trying—what I need to say, is—I never was in love with Alan or Jack or any of the other men I've dated. I thought I was with Alan for a while, you're right, and I thought maybe I could be someday with Jack, but I wasn't really, and never could have been, I know that now. I'm grateful to them, though, so don't be angry with them, Josh. If they hadn't—if they hadn't hurt me, like you said—a little, Josh, just a little—I might have stayed with one of them. And then I'd never have found out what love was really like."

"But now you have." His voice is like a dead weight. "With this guy who knows all about romance, this Mr. Perfect you've been talking about."

Tears start up in my eyes, but I find myself smiling a little too. I shake my head again. "No, Josh, no. But I have found out, yes."

"Donna—"

"I know, I know—just let me explain. You see, I might have—over-stated things a little—when I said I'd been seeing an old friend lately, and I'd fallen in love with him. I—have been. And—I am. But—oh, please, Josh, I'm sorry"—he's let out a sigh of frustration—"this isn't easy for me to explain to you, but I really need you to understand."

"Okay," he says, taking another long, ragged breath. "Okay, Donna. Just tell me, and I'll try to understand."

"I—I did go out to dinner tonight, Josh, but I didn't have a date with a man. I just went with my roommate."

"Your _roommate? _You—you're not—you couldn't be—?"

"Josh! Don't be ridiculous! Of course not. I told you I'd fallen in love with a man. I was kind of mis-stating things there, too, because I made it sound like I only just had. But really, I fell in love with him a long time ago."

I can feel his heart pounding under my hand. The room is so still I think I can hear it, too, and my own pulse beating away in my throat. For a minute those are the only sounds in the room. Then Josh breaks the silence.

"Who—who is he, then?"

I want to tell him, and I can't. Because I've been hiding this and denying it and refusing to say it for so long, trying to say it out loud now is the hardest thing—the absolutely hardest thing—I've ever done. I feel like I'm trying to wade through waist-deep snow in the middle of a blizzard; there are no familiar landmarks around me, nothing to tell me where to go or how to get there. All I can do is take a take another step in the direction I'm heading in, and hope it's the right one. So I take a deep breath and plough on.

"I—he's a very special man, Josh. I want you to understand how special he is."

He swallows, hard.

"Yeah, okay," he mutters. "You think he's special."

"I don't just think it, Josh. He _is. _Anyone would think that. Everyone who knows him does. He isn't Mr. Perfect, though. I wouldn't call him that in a million years. He's absolutely imperfect. He makes mistakes—lots of them. He can be arrogant and egotistical. He gets angry and shouts too much. He has the patience of a very small child."

Josh snorts. It's half a laugh, but half something else, too.

"Well, I guess you're used to that," he says.

"He gets impatient about some things, I mean. Not everything. Not the important things. I've always been so impressed by how much he's been willing to put up with just to do his job."

"What does he do?"

Again I can't help smiling a little, but my voice is shaking when I answer.

"He's in politics, Josh."

"Who the hell _is _he?"

"He's very good at it," I go on, ignoring the question. "Brilliant, really—and he works so hard at it. He works all the time. He never knows how to stop, how to cut himself a break."

"You won't like that. He won't be able to spend enough time with you. He won't be able to come home enough, or take you out, or give you all the fun times you'd like to have. It won't be any good for you. Donna, please, think about this—"

I shake my head.

"I _have_ thought about it, Josh. It doesn't matter. I'll be happy with whatever time I can get with him, whatever he's got to give. I understand why he has to do it, you see. He's working for such an important cause. And it won't be forever. Just four more years, and then he'll be able to cut back a bit."

His eyes narrow suspiciously.

"He works _here_, then? For this administration? _Who the hell_—?"

I take another deep breath, and plough on.

"It doesn't matter where he works," I say. "That's not why I love him. I love him for who he _is." _

"He sounds like a jerk."

The tears that have been pressing behind my eyes all this time well up and spill over at last.

"Don't say that! Don't _ever_ say that, Josh! He's not a jerk, even though I've told him about a thousand times that he is. He's just so incredibly smart, and dedicated, and hardworking, and —and hard on himself. He's so hard on himself, way too hard, and sometimes that makes him hard on other people, too, because he expects them to keep up with him, and he's going at a million miles an hour and gets frustrated when they can't. But he's such a good man inside. And I love him. I fell in love with him about ten minutes after I met him. I've never loved anyone else the way I love him. I never will. And I don't know how to live without him. You've got to understand that—it doesn't matter if things aren't perfect with him, I need to be where he is, and I'll never be happy if I'm not."

He's pressing my hand against his chest so tightly now it hurts. I look up into his eyes, expecting to see them burning with joy, but all I see there is confusion and pain, and I realize with a terrible pang that I've done this all wrong.

"Donna," he says, and his voice breaks on the second syllable. "Donna, why won't you tell me _who he i_s_?_"

"Josh," I say, my voice breaking on just that one. "Oh, Josh. Why don't you know?"

He startles, and I feel his heart actually leap under my hand. Then he bites his lip, and looks down into my eyes, and I see that his are filling up, too.

"Do you—" His voice is so husky he has to clear his throat. "Do you—

could you mean—?"

"Of _course_ I mean," I sob, incoherently. "Who else could I possibly mean?"

"Donna. You—can't. We can't. I—"

"Why can't I? Don't _you?"_

"Of course I do. Of _course_ _I do!_ I—I fell in love with you the moment I set eyes on you, don't you know that? I've never stopped loving you, never stopped wanting you, not for a minute, ever since, though I've tried not to show it, I've tried to get away from it by dating other people, I've tried to act like I didn't care when you did, too. Because we can't—_I _can't—you work for me—we work for the President. It won't work, Donna, it won't work for _you_, and if I ended up hurting you like that, I'd never forgive myself—"

"Shhh," I say then, stroking his arm with my other hand, the one he isn't crushing against his chest. "Shhh, Josh, shhhh. We'll make it work; we'll find a way. If I have to, I'll find another job."

"But—you can't want to do that. I can't let you do that. You'd have to leave the White House. You—"

"Josh. _Josh. _Stop it. Don't you understand? I don't need to work at the White House. That's _you. _I think Leo could make some arrangement so I could stay here, but if I can't, there are hundreds of other places I can work, hundreds of other things I'd love to do. But the only way I'll ever be happy doing them is if you love me, and I can love _you._"

I start to slip my left hand up behind his neck to pull his face towards me, but his hands are already in my hair, pulling me to him.

"_Love_ you?" he says, wildly. "How could I ever do anything else?"

And then his mouth is on mine, devouring me, and I'm devouring him back, wildly, desperately, passionately, both of us letting everything we've wanted so badly for so long rush over us like some frozen-up dam has burst and a great, unstoppable wall of water is flooding out from behind it.

Except that, all of a sudden, he stops. He's been battering me with kisses—not just my mouth, but my face, my hair, my ears, my throat—and I'm moaning for more, and then, for no reason that I can see, he pulls back. His chest is heaving and his eyes are blazing with desire, but he stops.

"What's the matter?" I gasp. "What's wrong?"

"Not _here,_" he says, breathlessly. "Not _here_. And not like _this_. Not _now_.

I groan, and close my eyes for a moment. I can't bear the thought of stopping this and taking the time to move somewhere else, but he's right, I know it: we can't go on like this here, in his office, in the White House. It's a scandal in the making.

"Your place?" I say with a sigh. "Cindy is home, and . . ."

"My place is a mess." His breath is still coming in ragged gasps. "I don't want—not like that—not with _you. _Tomorrow—I'll talk to Leo—make things right—get ready—"

"_Tomorrow?_" I pull back, and stare at him wide-eyed in disbelief.

"We've waited this long." His breathing is calming down now. I want to scream with frustration. "I want everything to be right."

"Oh, Josh."

"Let me drive you home now."

"I—ok." It's all I can do to turn my sob into a sigh. "If that's what you want."

He swallows then, hard, and takes my hands in his.

"Donna."

"Yes, Josh?"

He's all but crushing my hands in his. Then he starts to stroke the backs of them with his thumbs. But he never takes his eyes off mine.

"What I want? Really?"

"Yes, Josh?"

"Is—would be—if—"

I look at him wonderingly. Everything seems to wait, suspended.

"Would you marry me?"

I feel my eyes go wide, and my throat close up. And then I can't get any words out at all, so I have to nod, wildly. I think I'm crying again.

And then suddenly he's down on his knees, kissing my hands and anything else he can reach, and after a while I realize I'm not going to have to wait till tomorrow after all, because he's completely forgotten where we are.

And who could think there was anything wrong with that, I think afterwards, as I lie on the floor with him in my arms, stroking his hair. And what could be a better place or time?


End file.
